


Silent Night

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, character deaths but you already knew that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Western front of World War I, two friends risk a moment of peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Night

"There is a chance that they will shoot you on sight."

"I will have to risk it."

They had been discussing it since yesterday. Approximately five hours ago at 0100, the radio that Feuilly was holding had come alive with news. A German had managed to slip a chocolate cake in the British trenches. Inside the cake, there was a message:  _Ceasefire at 0600._

It was the Christmas of 1914. The time: 0530.

"If one of us has to go there first, must it be you?"

"Better me than you, my friend."

The German parapets were lined with small Christmas trees swaying in the wind, their trinkets illuminated by small candles underneath. All night, carols in another language seeped from the trenches 50 yards away. The words were different, but the melody was unmistakable.

_Stille nacht, heilige Nacht  
_ _Alles schläft; einsam wacht_

"I know you have your reservations, and that you wish no harm to come to us. But if I, if none of us do this, there will be no more chance."

Combeferre gripped the scrap of wood they had plucked from the ruins of a nearby farmhouse. In one end, a ragged piece of cloth hung limply. Enjolras gazed at his friend. There was a time that they had been the same height and would stare at each other for minutes with their foreheads pressed together. Enjolras knew that his friend couldn’t have grown within the course of a night, but it suddenly seemed that he was several feet taller.

"Listen," he said as he laid a hand on Combeferre’s arm.

At the other end of No Man’s Land, a soldier in grey appeared.

He was holding a rusty pipe with a large cloth tied on one end. On the cloth, it read on charcoal black with clumsy writing: _Merry Christmas_. The soldier stood erect in the middle of the grassland and turned his back, motioning for his comrades to join him. The moment had come. Enjolras and Combeferre shared a look, grasped hands, and went over the parapet.

—

Together they went through their dead. Twenty days ago, they had begun a series of piecemeal attacks that were eventually cut down by machine gun fire from the enemy’s side. Bossuet was killed; Jehan was killed; Courfeyrac was killed; Bahorel, who had rushed to Jehan when he saw him stagger, took eight bullets before he fell. Grantaire and Joly carried their friends’s bodies to a mass grave; the former was broodingly silent, the latter barely able to contain his tears. Not ten yards away, Feuilly helped the Germans dig their own pit.

The digging and burial rites lasted all day. At one point, Combeferre had to record the names of the fallen. “It is a harrowing task, but a necessary one," he said as they parted. When he left, a German appeared beside Enjolras and offered him a piece of cigar.

Enjolras regarded the pale-faced man and politely admitted, “I do not smoke, monsieur."

As if expecting this, the German smiled and lit the cigar for himself. “You have good eyes," he remarked, “and hair. You could be my brother."

Enjolras considered his next words carefully. Making his decision, he placed his feet firmly on the ground, crossed his arms over his chest, lifted his chin and replied, “We all could be."

Later when Enjolras was narrating the story in the safety of a farmhouse, Combeferre mused, “The cheer of the season is enough to give us peace for a day, but I’m afraid the people will keep harboring dark thoughts for a long, long time."

Enjolras looped his arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and declared, “It is only 1914. We have time". The fire crackled and sent bits of flame upwards. “The twentieth century is bound to be happy."

Combeferre squeezed Enjolras’s hand on his shoulder and believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's Les Mis Across History


End file.
